In last week's Guardian there was a fascinating obituary of Leonie Cohn, who died aged 92. Coming at the time of the 70th anniversary of the second world war, it's a reminder of the great gift to this country that was an indirect effect of Hitler's persecution. The generation that settled here may be passing from the scene, but their legacy is permanent.

Everyone knows the art historians Ernst Gombrich and Nicholas Pevsner, the philosopher Karl Popper, the political economist Friedrich von Hayek. Then there were the men who transformed London publishing: Walter Neurath, Andre Deutsch, Paul Hamlyn. They are no longer with us, but George Weidenfeld marks his 90th birthday later this month. Others wore more than one hat: Nicholas Sekers combined running a silk mill with arts patronage; Claus Moser, an academic statistician, was chairman of the Royal Opera House.

Although I don't think I ever met Leonie Cohn, I feel as if I might have. Growing up in north London after the war, I knew plenty of those emigres as family friends. Even now, despite the vast numbers who have fled persecution in my lifetime, "refugee" and "Jewish" are for me unconsciously the same word.

One organisation, almost more than any, benefited. Leonie Cohn became an eminent talks producer for the BBC, where her colleagues included Martin Esslin, Hans Keller and Georg Fischer. They provided the BBC with a new vitality and acerbity: the brilliantly creative and argumentative life of Frankfurt, Vienna or in Cohn's case Königsberg, breathed into the stuffy corporation.

Some of these were old boys of the Isle of Man internment camp, one of the less fine episodes of our finest hour of 1940. After Churchill's brutal order to "collar the lot", tens of thousands of "enemy aliens" – meaning Jews or other anti-Nazis – were rounded up and interned. Still, there were worse camps at that time, the inmates were mostly released quite soon, and even the internment had happy outcomes. Among those who met on the Isle of Man were three members of what became the Amadeus Quartet.

It's easy to be sentimental, and to succumb to what might be called the Schindler fallacy, celebrating thousands who survived the Holocaust when millions did not. There is also a tendency to indulge in the subtle self-congratulation at which we English excel. In truth, looking back on that terrible epoch, few countries have much to be proud of.

Brazil and Argentina did rather better than the English-speaking countries when it came to welcoming refugees. A particularly ignominious part was played by Australia, one of whose representatives said that his country did not have a Jewish problem and didn't intend to acquire one. And the US, while denouncing Hitler rhetorically and harassing the British over their thankless task in Palestine, went to great lengths to prevent the tormented remnants of European Jewry reaching American soil.

This country was nothing like as generous as it could have been, though a revulsion against Hitler's persecution produced unlikely heroes. Stanley Baldwin came out of retirement to broadcast on behalf of a refugee charity, Neville Chamberlain was appalled by the cruelty and argued in cabinet for more generous admission. And there was charity and kindness at an individual level, sometimes surprising. Fritz Spiegl was a flautist, joker and composer of the Z-Cars theme. Until he died some years ago, I didn't know that as a boy fresh from his Kindertransport, he had been taken in by Captain David Margesson, Chamberlain's imperious chief whip.

There are lessons today, but for the moment my thoughts are thankful. Those men and women who escaped here felt a loyalty to England that nothing could ever alter. But we owe them in return an enormous debt of gratitude.